Amelie Wen Zhao - Blood Heir

A cold foreboding spread through her; Ana found her steps slowing. The streets were filled with people laughing, chattering, passing the blacksmith’s shop without a care in the world. Had she been just like them one year past? She wanted to reach out to the boy, to speak to him, to do something.

A hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her from her thoughts. The world flooded back in a whirl of colors and sounds, and she realized that Ramson Quicktongue had been saying her name. Before she could jerk away, he drew her and May into the nearest shop.

The door clicked shut behind her, a bell chimed overhead, and the smell of wood wafted over to them from a fireplace in the back.

They stood in a shop for lacquer art. Tigers and vases lined the shelves while swans and icehawks and phoenixes twirled gently before the windows, all painted with swirling patterns of leaves, snowflakes, and fruits. Instinctively, Ana wedged herself between May and Ramson, glaring at the con man. “What are you doing?”

He stooped, his eyes trained on something moving outside the windows.

Beyond the lacquered fowl figurines, on the cobblestone streets outside, a procession passed by. Three horses trotted through the streets, their riders’ snowy-white cloaks flowing proudly behind. Silver tiger crests flashed on the riders’ chests, and blackstone swords gleamed at their belts.

“Whitecloaks,” Ramson muttered by her ear.

Imperial Patrols—the highest order of soldiers in the Cyrilian Imperial Army, they were peacekeepers, intended to monitor and quell any clashes between citizens and Affinites. Most important, though, armed with blackstone and Deys’voshk, they were trained to fight Affinites should they get out of hand.

Ana remembered visiting cities in her childhood, before her Affinity had manifested. She’d felt inexplicably safe in the presence of the Patrols’ billowing cloaks and gleaming helmets outside her carriage window. She remembered thinking that the Whitecloaks would protect her from any monsters that could hurt her.

Except now she was the monster.

“Ramson,” she said quietly, watching the procession. “Earlier, you said you would need to protect us from the Imperial Patrols. What did you mean by that?”

She didn’t want to hear the answer. But she knew she had to.

Ramson cast her a glance, and for a moment, she thought he would make a snide remark at her. Instead, he flicked his wrist, and a single bronze copperstone appeared between his knuckles. “It all comes down to this,” he said, and began flipping the coin between his fingers, making it appear one moment and disappear the next. “In a broken system, which way does the blade point?” Ramson pinched the copperstone and held it up. “Who do you think pays them more? The Empire? Or profitable businesses that rely on them to exploit Affinites in need of work?”

Ana’s heart hammered; she felt as though she were in free fall, as though the ground were slowly disappearing beneath her. “But have you seen it?”

Ramson’s gaze was fixed on the coin, whose edges glinted like the curved blade of a scythe. “As I said, I’m a businessman.”

Her lips parted, but she had no words and no breath left to argue.

“This empire is falling apart,” Ramson continued. “The previous emperor and empress died, the princess died a year ago, and the vultures are simply waiting to see how long Lukas Mikhailov lasts.” He tossed the copperstone into the air; it winked in the firelight and disappeared in his palms. “It’s every man for himself; the time of profiteers and reapers. You always win if you choose the winning side.”

The rest of the world seemed distant and muted as she watched him turn toward the door. The Whitecloaks had disappeared. Crowds continued to mingle in the streets outside—but everything appeared different.

“Look, just do me a favor,” Ramson said, “and stay away from the Whitecloaks—especially if they have a yaeger with them.” The bell jingled again as he pulled open the door. “I suspect you and the kid aren’t in possession of identification … and I’m sure you know the consequences of being caught.”

Goose bumps rose on Ana’s arms, and it had nothing to do with the cold wind that swept into the shop. He had to be exaggerating—he spoke as though they could be in danger, in broad daylight, in the middle of her empire. Yet asking him to elaborate meant playing into his hand and revealing a gap in her knowledge, a weakness.

Ana clamped her lips shut and followed him out.

“This is where we part ways for now,” Ramson said. “The place I’m going isn’t Affinite-friendly. Luckily, the Winter Market is right ahead on this road.” He winked at May. “You’d like some candy, wouldn’t you, love?”

May bared her teeth at him. “Ana told me to never accept candy from strangers,” she said.

Ramson looked deflated.

“Wait.” Ana glared at him. “You have to tell us where you’re going.”

“Ah, always the vote of trust from you.” Ramson pointed down a side alley, away from the general flow of the crowds. “The Gray Bear’s Keep. Right there, with the red-shingled roofs. Thirty minutes is all I need; I’ll meet you back here.”

Ana watched him saunter down the street. If he’d wanted to betray her, he could have just left her to die on the riverbank back in the Syvern Taiga. She didn’t like it, but she would have to let him go for now.

“Ana!” May pointed, her voice rising in excitement. “The Vyntr’makt!”

The streets before them opened up, and for a moment, Ana thought she was gazing at one of the miniature town carvings she’d received as gifts in her childhood. Brightly colored dachas glowed dusk-gold against a late-afternoon sun, tinsel-lined tarpaulins erected over stalls displaying trinkets and food that would make a child squeal.

May did, squeezing Ana’s hand and pulling her forward, weaving through the crowds. A banner with a white tiger’s head rippled at the entrance. Vyntr’makt, it announced. And, beneath, the motto of the Cyrilian Empire: Kommertsya, Deysa, Imperya. Commerce, Deities, Empire.

The Winter Market—Vyntr’makt in Old Cyrilian—was a tradition across all Cyrilian towns. Each town decorated its largest square or plaza into late autumn to await the Fyrva’snezh—the First Snow, a night that marked the beginning of winter and the awakening of their patron deity.

Kyrov’s Vyntr’makt rivaled Salskoff’s with the richness of its food wafting from the stalls, the opulence of iridescent jewels and silks splayed across display stands, the intricacy of sacred Cyrilian figurines carved on white gold. Fish-baked bread lined bakery windows, and the outdoor stalls boasted cold cabbage soups, beef potato pies, and lamb skewers roasting with olives.

Inevitably, in the midst of all the joy, her gaze was drawn to a single pot of beet soup boiling at the side of a wooden stall. Hot vapor rose from its crimson surface, filling the air with a pungent smell.

Nausea twisted in her stomach as a familiar image flashed through her mind. Eight bodies, splayed like twisted works of art. Blood, dark and red in the snow.

Deimhov.

Monster.

“… Ana!”

She jerked out of the memory, the crimson pools and screams fading as Kyrov’s Vyntr’makt returned. May was tugging on her hand. Her eyes were fixed on a stall ahead, filled with rows of honey apple tarts, caramel fried dough, and a variety of other treats.

Ana ran through the meager sum she’d saved up. They had enough for at least two more nights’ lodging and meals, and she was reluctant to spend a single copperstone over their budget … and yet. She thought of the first time she’d seen May, her shock at how scrawny the girl had looked. Even then, May had split her paltry rations from her employer with Ana, walking a mile in the snow each day to the barn where she’d hidden Ana and kept her alive.